Yes, my skill has always been my speed. Because this man ensured it when I was too young to understand what he was doing.
The training hall fades around me. Suddenly I’m five years old, Kassia’s hand clutched in mine, standing in Thalunia’s temple, as Leon begs his goddess to bless us the way he was blessed.
The memory turns fuzzy, and I push it away, sliding the strap of the shield over my left forearm, positioning my hand so that I can grip thehandle. Even the smaller shield is heavy, and the muscles on the left side of my body strain as I hold it up at chest height.
Leon nods. And then he swings.
Again and again and again, his sword meets my shield. We fall into a rhythm. He’s not even breaking a sweat, but he aims each slash, swipe, and strike at different points on my body, forcing me to shift both the shield and my feet accordingly.
I tire quickly. Too quickly. Within minutes, I’m panting, my arms shaking. Leon’s expression is dark, and when he throws down his wooden sword, it hits the floor with a clatter.
“Your strength is all but gone, your natural instinct has disappeared, and your speed …” He shakes his head. “Even Thalunia’s gifts must be trained. What were you doing for the past six years?”
Bitterness rises, sharp and hot. “Keeping my brothers fed and alive.” While he ignored us and became a recluse in his cottage.
Leon opens his mouth to say something, but his gaze slips past me.
The Primus is leaning against a nearby wall, that armor covering every inch of his body and face. And he’s watching me.
“You need to go home,” the Primus says, his voice as rough as boots on gravel.
My sweat turns icy. He hasn’t paid attention to anyone else near me. Does he know I’ve been sent to kill the emperor? Is that why he’s attempting to give me a chance to leave? A chance to live?
Several people nearby laugh at his words, and the Primus slowly turns his head. The laughter cuts off abruptly.
I keep my gaze on him. “I can’t.”
“Then I’ll make you.”
Someone calls to him, and he turns, stalking away.
“Ten laps,” Leon says, as if nothing happened. “Sprint.”
Nodding, I go to drop the shield and he shakes his head. “Take it with you. Hold it up.”
Grinding my teeth, I join a few others in their laps. Thankfully, they ignore me.
Circling the hall allows me to see the others training.
A group of gladians work on knife skills, hands fast and sure as they throw blades at their targets, disarm their opponents, and slice out with wicked speed.
Several people climb up and down the ropes using only their arms.A woman calls down to Maeva, nimbly wrapping the rope around her waist and one leg and holding herself horizontally in the air. She reminds me of an acrobat, and Maeva gives her a grin before going back to her own drills. She’s fast, too, her sword slicing through the air as her guardant calls out instruction.
In one corner, a group of gladians are training with magic. All of them are at least half-crowned bronze, and a man with a face covered in freckles throws flames from his hand, while his opponent sends up a gust of wind, driving the flames straight back at him. A woman with long, yellow-blond hair smirks, and both of the men curse, feet wheeling as they slip on the sudden pool of water beneath their feet.
In another corner, a group of vampires are throwing knives, the blades nothing but a blur, until they hit the target with athump.
I pass Leon and he folds his arms. “Faster.”
Everywhere I look, sigilmarked and vampires spar with scutum and parma shields, broadswords and daggers. Their arms are strong, their footwork flawless. Each lap reinforces just how out of my depth I am.
Baldric and Hester train in the center of the hall, fighting two opponents each. Baldric trips one of the men, slamming a wooden sword into his back with a laugh.
By the time I finish a few laps, I know exactly why Leon made me run laps, and it has nothing to do with the burning in my muscles.
Six years of bodyguard work has sharpened my instincts. Guarding the kind of people who have potentially violent enemies is a great way to learn how to judge those enemies at a glance and react accordingly.
By my fifth lap, I know Maeva is playing smart. Instead of showcasing her skills for everyone to see, her movements are carefully restrained, her speed slower than what she’s capable of. She can’t completely dampen her instincts when responding to a strike or blow, but she’s slowing that response down as much as she can.
